When I was a child Friday afternoon meant two things for Mum. She would get the bones and split peas bubbling in the pot ready for the weekend soup. Every weekend there was soup. And she would cook the beetroot. There was an old pitted saucepan just for the task - coloured from many years of use. Sometimes Dad grew the beetroot and other times it came from the greengrocer or the market. It would boil away with a slightly earthy smell and when it had cooled the fun began.
Now I admit I am somewhat squeamish about things like mud pies and play dough and generally getting my hands dirty but I loved dealing with the beetroot. First the top and tail were cut off and discarded. Then if the cooking was just right the skins would slide off. Sometimes this would involve a beetroot popping out of its skin and onto the floor - a bit like whole beets from the salad bar at the pub.
Then there would be slicing and packing away ready to be used for Sunday lunch. When we ate we wore our pinnies over our Sunday dresses so we would still be neat and tidy to go to Sunday school int he afternoon. No beetroot stains, please.
I loved the taste of warm fresh beetroot even if it was a bit stringy sometimes as the season ended. For some years when we lived in Laura we grew our own beetroot and I preserved it in jars where it sat on the shell along with the apricots and peaches looking gorgeous.
Over the last few years there has been a return to being able to buy fresh beetroot and it appears grated in salad or made into dip with horseradish.
This morning our neighbour gave us some beetroot from his garden. I thought of my Mum a s I got out an old pot and began the process. I will be thinking of her for some time as my hands are now stained with the colour of the juice. Yes beetroot comes in cans, but oh, the memories.....
* Actually beetroot used to come in tins, not cans.
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